


Uncle, uncle

by Allegory



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Angst, Comfort/Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Illness, Post-Canon, Post-Kings Rising, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Sad, Self-Harm, damen x laurent, lamen, laurent breaking apart, laurent x damen, makedon - Freeform, nikandros - Freeform, not really? maybe really?, tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-09 19:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6920131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allegory/pseuds/Allegory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flashes of a creature’s long slender fingers, grabbing onto his pale blonde hair, pulling, pushing. Fingers digging in his flesh, beads of bright red staining mottled sheets. Icy air, cold, so cold, then a burst of white hot pain. The pain, always.</p><p>In which the regent is dead but Laurent loses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

One night, heaving under Damen’s weight, Laurent slaps him.

Not the mild, affectionate tease of his calloused palm. Tonight, Laurent swerves around and scalds his lover’s cheek. It must be the worst pain Damen has ever endured—when he turns back, forcing himself to hold Laurent’s gaze, it’s as if he’s been cut by a thousand shards of glass, tipped in poison, courtesy of Laurent’s tongue.

Except for once, Laurent’s tongue has nothing to do with this. For once Laurent has resorted to action. It is as if Damen has committed the greatest wrongdoing, so foul, so unforgivable that even as a courtesan of derision, Laurent cannot speak it away.

But Damen is not at fault. Laurent wants to say that, to tell Damen that the red tinge on his rich bronze skin is Laurent’s fight against himself—one which he wins, some nights, and loses, most others. Flashes of the luxurious maroon bedding, winter-grey skin and the unrelenting pain. Unbidden thoughts that surface when they make love.

These are ceaseless nightmares that continue to eat away at him. Leeches he will never remove. And tonight, they have sucked him dry.

“Damen,” Laurent offers, and as far as apologies go, it’s rather decent. Seeing his lover attempt to rearrange himself, to conceal the amount of pain and shock across his narrowed eyebrows breaks Laurent in a way that scares him.

“What is it?” Damen tries. He reaches for Laurent’s face.

Flashes of a creature’s long slender fingers, grabbing onto his pale blonde hair, pulling, pushing. Fingers digging in his flesh, beads of bright red staining mottled sheets. Icy air, cold, so cold, then a burst of white hot pain. The pain, always.

Laurent cuffs him again. This time, he is conscious of his own action, the thought playing out in his head a split second before: _Damen. My lover, my husband, and I am slapping him._ And when the blow lands, Damen pausing before leaning back, Laurent feels the fragile pieces of his own heart chip off, salve melting, scars peeling.

Laurent says nothing. He steps off the bed, pushes into his boots and scattered clothes and silk cloak. Laces undone, hanging, he leaves the room without a word.

Damen has sense enough not to pursue him. The last thing Laurent sees is the peripheral image of him sitting there, head on his arms, the canvas of his scarred back a scathing reminder of the past. Damen has given him everything. He has breathed life into the numbness that Laurent thought would latch onto him forever.

And Laurent slaps him for it. Of course.

*

The pre-dawn air nips at Laurent’s skin mockingly. This world, it is unchangeable—even in the regent’s death, the day he watched as his uncle’s head was mounted on a spike, the man will forever haunt him. Laurent chokes at the thought. A lump has risen in his throat, the shape of it, the press of it, so sour and persistent.

Laurent proceeds through the winding hallways, ignoring the eyes of the Akielon soldiers fixed upon him. In the morning, there will be talk: _but it has only been a few days since their marriage._ The two kingdoms that he and Damen had welded together, months of hard work, their ceremony put off time and time again.

Why now? After they have finally wedded, after standing in the pavillon, Laurent wiping the tear from Damen’s eye and kissing him, thousands of people roaring for them.

_Why, uncle?_

Light breezes in through the arched windows. Greenery spreads out before them, the gardens of the castle sprouting in muted pastel. And further out, in the woods of the North, they would ride together during their free hours. It had always been Laurent, alone, the single sun reprimanding him, the winds howling, biting at him. Never since the death of his brother has Laurent rode leisurely with another. Damen has filled that emptiness, and in the process, carved a hole in his own chest.

 _I am breaking him,_ Laurent listens to these words with his own, brittle voice. It frightens him—this weakling he has become. Something in him is gone, something he is not sure he will ever retrieve. The regent has taken it away, taken it with his execution. And Damen will suffer for it. Laurent knows that he loves him, loves him so much that nothing Laurent could say would turn him away.

Laurent hates him for it.

*

In an inventory some distance away, he twists in a corner, nails scraping against his own skin. _Uncle. Uncle._

It must have been some time after when Damen comes running, shattering his silence, prying Laurent’s own fingers off his flesh. Laurent, dragged from the murky fog of his uncle shoving him, using him again and again until he lies boneless on a bed, discovers the pink, raised lines, haphazard under his sleeves.

“No more,” Damen whispers, voice shaking, the agony in his eyes crippling him. “No more, Laurent. We will not bed again. Not until you are better, never until then.”

“You will bore of me—“

“No. No, I will never bore of you. That voice inside you is hurting you. Listen to me, Laurent. Trust me." 

Damen pulls him into an embrace. The warmth of his body reminds Laurent of the regent, nailing him against the wall- _but it isn't him,_ he reasons, repeating it in his head, like a devout priest chanting prayers. The dependence of Damen’s request frightens him. But somewhere inside, in the vestiges of the thing he has lost, Laurent knows it is his only chance. For if this continues, Laurent fears he will spiral even further, deeper, and it will not be long until his uncle receives him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone was too nice to me so here is the second chapter ;w; goodbye A level grades and my future

Neither of them speak of the incident.

Laurent has assumed his composed self. By the late afternoon haze, he is speaking to several aristocrats, pulling strings, knitting intricate plans to further strengthen their empire. Damen has his own work in dealing with a massive inventory overhaul- and a more recent project, expanding Marlas to accommodate a healthy number of Veretian soldiers. It would do good for both armies to interact more and get used to the joining of their cultures.

But Laurent never leaves his mind. He finds himself spacing out from time to time, awoken only by the respectful calls of his soldier and at one point, Nikandros, holding him by the shoulder.

"Damen. Is there a problem?" And there are lots of problems, frankly. Discrepancies and disputes are part and parcel of claiming the throne, but that's not the sort of problem that Nikandros is speaking of. The two stop walking and Damen gazes pass the crenelations, at the arrows that whizz in perfect synchronity with each stern order of the overdressed instructor. Good shots, they've become. Veretians prove better at this sport.

As if to spite him, the image of Laurent pressed against a concrete wall, in absolute silence and stillness save for the scraping of his own skin, gnaws at Damen's mind. Laurent has all but avoided him today, nodding in curt agreement, otherwise eyeing at the floor. Damen does not know if the faint, pink scratches on his arms are gone yet.

"Would you council me," said Damen. "On a private matter?"

Nikandros looks at him with almost a slight tease to his lips, thoughts perhaps in the line of courtship, maybe even fatherhood.

"His Highness Laurent?"

"His Highness Laurent."

But before Nikandros can continue, can nudge Damen in the side and comment on how he'd honestly been worried for his friend, Damen explains. "I'm afraid for him. He is ill, Nikandros. To what sickness I am puzzled over."

Silence comes over them. Over the castle, save for the chirp of birds in the distance. Damen knows full well that he might as well have told Nikandros to close his eyes and pick from a Veretian library of ailments. But when he thinks of elaborating- _Laurent was raped by his uncle, Nikandros, only as a child, twelve or thirteen, and it's taking over him, his mind, his being_ \- Damen's guts toil. To speak those words would make them feel too real.

 _Trust me._ Earlier this day, Damen had meant his words. And he still does. But now, he doubts they would make a difference.

The thoughts race through his mind. He is reminded of that day three months ago, that first time his lover had pushed off, turned away and slammed the door on him. And ever since then it has been uneasy between them. Some nights Laurent would enjoy him, their moans and pants echoing off the walls, a slight smile on his face in the warm aftermath. As if everything were alright again. Most others he exited their room, a speechless request to be alone.

The worse days were when he lied silent on the bed, Damen buried within him, pleasure the last thing on his mind. Laurent would bite his lip so hard that they left indents of his teeth, and the whole time he would have his arm pressed against his eyes- like he was trying to be an unknown face, a body only to be used. What little noise he made broke Damen’s heart. And he would always beg Laurent to let him stop.

Laurent never let him. Those days, it’s as if he wants to be hurt.

Damen realizes he has spaced out. Nikandros looks at him, his eyebrows lowered.

"What?"

“You are being too vague,” he repeats. Damen turns to his friend, crossing his arms with his back against the battlements. He sighs.

"I apologise. What I mean is- what would you do, if say I...stopped speaking to you. To everyone, beyond matters of kingdom and court.”

Nikandros must have heard that much of the Veretian-born king. Nobility talk, and they must have come together enough to recognise Laurent's new disposition. He rejects drink, eats as much is expected of him and no less or more. Makedon, despite all his good will, has stopped attempting to break his silence. Laurent has cast off his carefully pruned, pristine court image.

And outside of court, what other conversation Damen has with him is limited, hollow of his snake-like intricacies. Their rides, once full of playful banter, have slipped into eerie periods of silence, solemnity locked in Laurent's features.

"Does Paschal know of this?" Nikandros murmurs, adopting a tone just as hushed as his.

"I have spoken to him. But to no avail," he says. In truth, Paschal hadn’t had a clue of the uncle and nephew's darker past. Damen had backed out of it for Laurent's sake.

Nikandros stares at the great hall of the castle. Laurent is likely within its vicinity, attending to one task or another. And when Damen returns to his side, both of them retiring to their quarters, Damen would attempt some form of small talk. To the best of Laurent’s ability, he would play along with it.  _The parfait was good today. Oh, did you hear of that Patras blacksmith?_  

You should talk to him- honestly, about his troubles,” Nikandros says, in the style of Akielons. “Veretians are shaped in obscurity, and I should think he would benefit from a straight conversation. Whether he appreciates it or not is of second concern. You must do what is best for his health.”

Damen thinks on his advice, how he has tried to breach this topic several times- only to be scalded by a direct insult, an intentional spark of his nerves that Laurent is still capable of, and Damen has yet built tolerance against. What would he do, tie Laurent down and make him pour his heart out?

Damen brushes his left cheek, the redness having faded. Brute force would never work. Never between them.

“Thank you,” is all Damen says. He is exhausted by all this thinking, this dejection stewing in him. Nikandros nods, though even he seems to know his advice would not come to use.

* * *

 

Damen finishes his duties early, before sunset, though his clothes are slick with sweat as a result of a long day, overseeing progress. He keeps thinking back to Laurent’s words,  _you will bore of me_ , like some cruel spell bound to his mind. And then from Nikandros, _you must do what is best for his health._

The final line, Damen thinks, is when he enters the private dining room. Where, in some distant memory, they would take turns feeding each other grapes, calling each other slave and pet. Of the throne, the bathrooms, their own quarters, this is perhaps the only place Laurent bears any semblance to peace in his glazed eyes.  And Laurent is always punctual, arriving minutes earlier than Damen or at the least at the same time.

“Where is Laurent?” Damen asks, to no one in particular.

“His Highness says he has eaten, Exalted, and that he would prefer you dine without him.”

Anger seeps into Damen’s blood, rushing through his veins. He turns to the owner of the voice, one of the two guards by the doorway. His knuckles turn white and it takes everything in him not to slam his fist against the wall.

“Where has he gone?” There is a pause. The guard must know, from Damen’s voice, that he is just that close to exploding.

"His Highness has instructed me not to reveal his location.”

Damen reaches out for the guard’s collar then, staring straight into the fearful man’s eyes. It takes the weak protests of the other guard for Damen to realize that this is not his fault. He releases the man, breathing a stiff apology as he strides down the hall.

* * *

 

Several hours of searching for Laurent ensues. Damen has the entire castle turned over in search of his husband- in desperate search, for not long after dusk the torrent of rain began, flooding the land in ripples of wind and thunder. The stables are checked for Laurent’s colt. The throne room, the castle library, even the basements. When all else fails and Damen practically forces the privy guards to speak, they only say they haven’t the slightest idea. That they’d only seen him head east.

Withholding information and lying, Damen supposes, are two different things. And from the doe-like eyes of the guards, he suspects that they have only done the former. Yet he has searched the eastern flank, had his men dispatched to turn the place over, had them all return to him shaking their heads.

The rain takes to a crescendo, dancing in sparks of lightning, the trees in the horizon swaying and trying to hold root. Damen remembers how hot and bright the day has been, how unlikely rain had seemed. He stops by the pillars outside his quarters. A burst of lightning pierces through his eyes. This sort of weather is much like Laurent, he thinks.

Here one second, gone, the next.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the support thus far! Chapter 2 and 3 do need revision, which I'll get to post-exam.  
> Special thanks to mangogirl, aurrai, Human_Being, Luvs2read, emperorforshort, Saenda, loki-on-mjolnir and transcience for all the love and introspection! You guys are amazing! I'll get to reps ASAP :)

The night wears on until Damen truly begins to fear for Laurent's safety and whereabouts. He should trust Laurent with his own well-being. And he has, until now, until Laurent has become so much of a different person.

Damen is arguing with Nikandros at the stables, already mounted on his horse. The morbid fear, having festered in his mind, emboldens him to ride pass his friend when a stable boy runs into them. Gasping, he declares that Laurent has been spotted in the south, a mop of yellow hair in the errant flashes of light. A group of riders have already been dispatched to meet what appears to be their king, drenched all over, slogging through with his bare feet.

Damen hops off his ride. Led by the young boy, he makes his way through the castle until a guard takes over for the last leg of the journey. He grimaces upon being brought back to his chambers.

The gilded doors come open to the sight of Laurent, half-dressed in an undershirt and cotton trousers, mussing his hair with a towel. He acknowledges Damen with nothing more than a curt nod, and Damen feels his blood boil once again.

"Where," he snarls, stepping toward Laurent, towering over him. "Have you been?"

Laurent squeezes the water out from his fringes, dank irises flickering in the low torchlight. "Away."

Damen almost wants to manhandle him then. It's impossible when Laurent's shoulders are slackened, none of that straight-backed poise present. There's only such a hint of loneliness in his expression, dispassion and emptiness in the rest. Wherever he's been, the exhaustion hits him- when Laurent steps away, he falters with the degree of subtility that only Damen can catch.

"Enough of this," Damen hears himself say. He plucks the towel out of Laurent's hands and, upon reading the absence of struggle in his face, sits him down by the edge of the bed.

Damen starts to dry the strands of his hair, a leisure that he has taken to, one that Laurent allows him only on certain occasions. He would usually rest his head on Damen's chest, listening to his heartbeat and the ruffling of his own hair. Not today. Today, Laurent sits with his elbows on his knees, head cast downward.

When Damen finishes, lingering a tad longer than necessary, Laurent gets up. He limps forward, to the desk set in a corner where several maps and schedules lie. There is weakness in his gait and Damen watches him as the horror of realisation sinks in, ever discrete, the pursing of Laurent's lips the only sign. This the reason, or perhaps cause, of him practicing less frequently with his sword. Whatever has taken over Laurent's mind is starting to take its toll on his body, too. Damen is appalled by just watching him hide that understanding, misting a new found wound and resuming his work.

Damen strides to the desk without further thought,  grabbing onto Laurent's wrist. A quill pen is wrapped in his hand as he turns up with that blank expression on his face, betrayed only by hooded eyelids.

"We need to talk."

"Are we not?"

"Not like this," Damen pries the pen out of his hand. Despite going off who knows where in the storm, goose bumps trailing his flesh, Laurent holds onto the pen with a vice grip. As if it means he will lose this conversation otherwise. Damen eventually lets go, fearing that the stem will break into two.

"I do not," Laurent says, brushing the feather that has been squished under Damen's fingers. "Have anything useful to say. I was out for a walk. The storm came in. I came back."

"Your instruction to the guard seems excessive for a walk."

"A walk alone."

"Alone," Damen says. "When exactly did that word come between us?"

There's a pause. Rain continues to bat down on limestone, hard and urgent like the horses of an army, cladding the soil and breaking ground. The candlelight wanes, and when a strong wind billows through the Veretian-styled curtains, the room is left in darkness. Damen loses sight of the remorse that had torn through Laurent's expression, all the pain gathering in the wet pools of his eyes, extinguished, like the light.

"Was it before we met?" Damen continues, his sight adjusting. "It was, wasn't it? It came between us during your childhood."

"No," Laurent hisses. "You insipid barbarian. I have simply tired of you."

The words suck the air out of Damen's lungs. It is not the first time, he reminds himself, and it will not be the last. This time he catches what Laurent is trying to do- he has done better by sullying Damen's family. It must be his tiredness slipping through the cracks.

"Talk to me, Laurent. About your uncle. I won't stand for this anymore."

The legs of the chair scrape against the marble floor. Laurent is standing right in front of him, head slightly raised, their chests almost touching. The curtains shudder and a slit of light passes through his eyes, only a mere second for Damen to recognise the contempt boiling inside them.

"You want to hear of my uncle?" Laurent puts his palm against the back of Damen's neck, causing his hairs to stand. "Truly? Shall I fancy you with the time he fucked me senseless? The time I licked his balls? Or the time I actually enjoyed it?"

Before Damen can react,  Laurent pulls their lips together and their teeth clash, a painful impact that jars and travels down his spine. Laurent kisses him the way he never has, hungrily devouring him where it's usually the other way around. His soft lips, tongue raking the roof of Damen's mouth, has him struggling for breath and thought.

Laurent shoves him against the edge of the desk, his body grinding against the growing erection in his pants. Damen tries to push him away but it's as if some new strength has possessed him, the strength to be done with this conversation, leaving everything unsolved.

"Stop," Damen gasps, catching him by the shoulders. Laurent jabs the bend of his left arm and pushes the other, putting so much of his weight on Damen that his back is starting to burn.

"Fuck me," Laurent breathes, warm air against his ears. "Fuck me hard and raw. Don't prepare me. You'll love it, Damen. You'll love seeing me bleed."

A claw of ice clinches Damen's guts and he loses it, flinging against Laurent with no concern for his smaller body. Blonde hair knocks against the wall with a sickening crunch and the high in his expression disappears, consumed by blinding pain. Damen does not apologise or loosen his hold.

"Stay. Down." Damen growls. Laurent bares his teeth, the carnal reaction strange on his face. Knowing it would end like this, Laurent doesn't even try to struggle.

"After everything, can you still not trust me?" Damen huffs. "Can you not trust that I want to help you?"

"I do not need help."

"Do you not?"

Laurent's lips are parted, the answer hanging in his throat. Damen kneels, the cold floor against his knee as he waits for the inevitable. But it never comes. Laurent looks down, his chest expanding and collapsing in tandem to his breath.

Moments later, his voice eases out in a whisper. "I intended to leave for Kingsmeet. Jord had arranged for transportation by the woods."

Damen releases his hands. Laurent slides down the rest of the way, his bare torso pale, ghoulish with only a cream wash. He folds his arms around himself, curling by the wall like he had earlier.

"Perhaps our marriage had been premature," Laurent says, after a silence. "We were not ready."

"You weren't." Damen sits down across from him, their bodies indistinct shapes under the furnishing shadows. "What's scaring you?"

Laurent's eyes search the floor, closing moments after. He lets out a resigned sigh. "You are. I don't know what's happening to me. But just looking at you-"

"Reminds you of the regent?"

Laurent swallows. "Yes."

"Then tell me why. Please."

Laurent places his forehead on his bent legs. He blinks, as if trying to keep awake. "It's too painful. To speak about it."

"Better than this, Laurent. I'm losing you. You need to face the past. To face him."

"I know," he says. "I know."

They stay like that for a while. Damen listens to the rain subside, ever steady but lighter. He reaches out for Laurent's hand, a calm turquoise stone set in a silver weld ring on his middle finger. The sides are flanked by crystals in the style of the laurel that Damen wears, a selfish, personal addition to have Laurent remember whose heart he has captured, whose heart he will always have.

Damen leans forward to kiss the small embellishment on his slender finger. Silver and glass, the competent aura that Laurent emits and his fragile core, born of love deceased.

"I'll go with you," Damen says. "To Kingsmeet."

Laurent turns up and gazes at him, bitter reluctance, almost disgust at the idea. "You-"

"Let me do this one thing," Damen cuts him off, his voice almost on the verge of begging. More than anything he hopes going to Kingsmeet will restore the faith that Laurent once had for him, now lost in the maze of his mind.

Laurent releases a hitched sigh. "On one condition. You don't say a word."

Damen knows this is the best Laurent will give. He nods, slowly, and gets up with his arm outstretched. "Come. It's late."

The two of them head to bed, Laurent's work on the table all but forgotten. He dons a simple tunic, folded on the side of the bed. It has become customary between them to sleep chest against back, Damen draping over him. But tonight he clings to the edge, a tiny portion of the silk sheet across his form. Numbness burns in Damen's chest. He does not fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone would be so kind as to provide constructive crit, I would love to hear it! Either by comments or my tumblr @warmwintersun will be fine. Looking mostly for the structural aspects and where things sound weird. Thanks!


End file.
